


Set the Fire to the Third Bar

by androgenius



Category: Glee
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-08-11
Updated: 2012-08-11
Packaged: 2017-11-11 22:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 17,897
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/483800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/androgenius/pseuds/androgenius
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Rachel and Jesse contact each other again a couple years after the occurrences of Season 1, they unofficially begin a long-distance relationship; Rachel in New York, Jesse in Los Angeles. But Jesse is reluctant to get into anything with Rachel, knowing that it's far too easy to get in way too deep with Rachel. Featuring commitmentphobic!asshole!Jesse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

The guilt is almost overwhelming when it hits her. It shouldn't be so unreasonable-- after all, plenty of people google their loved ones even before the first date just to make sure they weren't registered sex offenders or worse. She'd certainly looked up her past flings, dates, one-night-stands, Finn included (though, with him, she had to admit that the only thing she had come across had been someone's blog post and the subsequent comments regarding what a shitty quarterback and team captain he was; not exactly sex offender material).

And while she was certain that, yes, if she were going on a date with Jesse St. James tonight, she would feel absolutely no shame in typing his name into that damn search bar. As it is, she isn't, and she does. She can't help it.

He's not hers to look up anymore.

  
&

  
It's strange, really.

He's not up on that stage to accept a Tony or a Golden Globe. But he's up there nevertheless, because when UCLA's theatre guild doles out awards to the best performers, they do it right. _They say it's like practice for a real speech_ some random buffoon who was certainly not getting an award had told him.

No one told him whether or not he's being honored tonight-- all of the performing arts majors have to show up-- but he _knows_ , in true Jesse St. James fashion. His head is certainly big enough, and he's received more than enough praise regarding his performance.

When he gets called up to receive the award-- a small, dinky-looking thing, gold-plated statue of Joe Bruin, one of the bear mascots of the school-- for Best Male Vocalist, he's not surprised. No one is.

He puts on his trademark showface grin over the thunderous applause as he stands up on the stage, receiving the award as he clears his throat. It's the audience's signal to _shut up_ and stop clapping. They get the picture.

"To think that some hotshot from Ohio could receive this four years in a row. Really, I'm honored. Thank you so much!"

When he raises the statue up, the crowd breaks out into applause again as he returns to his former seat.

"That's impressive," his seat neighbor tells him. Jesse doesn't even know his name.

"Mm," he says, just as his name is called up to the stage again, this time for Best Male Performer. That one he wasn't expecting, but he's not surprised.

Again, the thunderous applause from the people that think they know him. It's almost pitiful.

"Seriously, not one, but two? I guess they wanted me back up here so they could make me give a legitimate speech instead of my clipped trademark _thank you_ this time." Appropriately long laughter. "I don't mean to sound cocky, but the vocalist award I was expecting. This one I wasn't. We all know that last year, and the year before, and the year before that, that slot was held by someone different." Hushed murmurs. "He was brilliant, and with his graduation last year, I was certain that this year, they'd no doubt find someone incredible, brilliant like he was. But I never thought that person would be me." Clearing his throat, he holds the golden Bruin closer to his chest. "I want to thank my family for supporting me, I want to thank UCLA for giving me a shot, I want to thank all of you for being your wonderful selves," all lies, there isn't a single person in this audience he's ever considered _wonderful_ over his four years here, "but most of all I want to thank Rachel Berry--"

His words cut off, his eyes go wide. The crowd has started muttering again, exchanging confused glances. Jesse doesn't care, he can't even think straight.

_He has to finish his sentence._

For a second, he wonders if he's actually losing his mind. _Favorite person,_ the crowd seems to say, _favorite person_.

"-- for understanding better than anyone."

He swallows hard. The whispers have yet to die down, and he numbly walks back to his seat, two trophies in front of him now. He feels numb.

He's graduating summa cum laude with a BA in performing arts in a week and honors in everything. His family is going to be flying into town the next couple of days, making his life more difficult than it needs to be, judging his lifestyle, his apartment, the way he can't seem to keep his hair perfectly short the way they prefer. He's even got finals left to worry about, even if he can honestly say that he's not worried about them.

But none of that matters. Not when Rachel has returned to the forefront of his mind.

  
&

  
Jesse's name lands her countless hits. Several dozen mentions of Vocal Adrenaline, Nationals, Shelby's name, his hometown, his parents names-- but also UCLA and his more recent work there.

They're mostly articles, really, nothing too interesting. Her heart feels deflated. He's all over the internet and she can't stop thinking about him.

Her next stop is youtube, one of the google search hits having led her there. It's a video of a performance he did a few years back in his first year at UCLA. He's the lead, of course, and in _Spring Awakening_ , of all things. When she hears the opening lines of _I Believe_ , she freezes.

It's one thing to watch him perform.

It's another to watch him be intimate with another girl.

It's on stage, obviously scripted and simulated, but it doesn't matter. Rachel's neck feels almost uncomfortably warm, and she bites down on her bottom lip. Even without the moaning, grunting, groaning, whimpering, gasping-- it's almost too much to bear.

She shuts her laptop lid abruptly when they start to have sex.

She can't watch this.

  
&

  
Nothing is working.

He's tried everything-- from Playboy to straight up porn, every goddamn time he closes his eyes, he sees nothing but Rachel. Can't stop thinking about anything other than Rachel. It's the worst kind of insomnia he's ever had, and he's never even had insomnia.

It's 2am when he finally gets up, giving up on sleep for the night. Cereal in hand, he traipses back over to his computer, setting the bowl down as he crunches down on the Kellogg's, typing _Rachel Berry_ into the search bar. Surely there have to be hits.

There are dozens of them.

It's her fault, obviously, that New Directions won Nationals her senior year. He'd expected no less, even before he'd gotten the phone call from Shelby asking if he'd heard.

But she hadn't stopped there.

He'd expected her to go to some smalltown college in Ohio before heading to New York, but she'd really made it. Gone straight to New York to study at NYU's Tisch School of the Arts, apparently taking the lead in every damn production they had to offer in her past two years there.

It's the video that finally catches his attention, an excerpt from her performance in their production of _Rent_.

She's playing Maureen, singing _Take Me or Leave Me_ opposite another girl. To think that she'd play a role like that-- but she really has it in her. He'd never have thought.

His heart feels like it's clenching up.

He knows, completely, that Rachel is straight. And yet, he can't bear to see her with another woman? And on a _stage_ , no less? It's pathetic.

Retreating to one of the videos of their performance at Nationals, he feels relief washing over him. Just Rachel. Of course Schuester would pick her for the solo; he'd have be an idiot not to. She belongs on the stage, a natural. This is her life's blood.

Listening to her perform Barbra's _I'd Rather Be Blue Over You_ , he leans his head back. He doesn't have to see her face on the screen when she's singing-- her voice paints the picture well enough on its own, and it feels almost as if she's singing directly to him. All that emotion-- she's completely swept Barbra under the table with her rendition of the song, of that he is convinced.

She's perfect.

Somewhere across the continent, Rachel is blissfully unaware of the way Jesse's hand is snaking down his front to take his cock out of his pajama bottoms, grasping it softly in his hand, eyes still closed.

He can't quite believe it himself.

  
&

  
Her anti-puff protective eye mask is doing nothing to help her, and the calming eucalyptus face cream is proving to be just as useless. She's tried chamomile tea (warm milk and honey being obviously out of the question), the soundscape channel's rain sounds, and counting sheep.

After sheep number 186, she finally gets up again, flipping open her laptop once more, and logging into social network she has.

It's time to look up Jesse St. James on a more intimate basis.

  
&

  
Yesterday he would have never thought he'd be here, doing this, of all things. It's not normal, he knows that, but he's not about to make excuses.

Rachel's voice is incredible, and he's so hard he's arching up against his hand.

Finn's voice cuts into Jesse's wanting like a cold shower, interrupting his Rachel to "pair" with her, if one could call it that. It was only at that particular intrusion-- god, he should have expected it, _prepared_ for it, that he jerks up, eyes wide, hands fumbling to do something, anything, quickly, to just pause the damn video. He can't watch them-- listen to them-- sing together. It makes his stomach feel like it's folding in on itself, and he's about to shut his laptop when a notification pops up.

  
  


The timing is almost too good to be realistic.

  
&

  
Rachel has never been the timid kind, but this has her feeling nervous. Having to steel herself to send someone a facebook friend request is just not something that she's ever had to deal with.

But she sends it anyway.

She knows he's busy, what with graduating within a week and all that (Rachel would never outright admit to having looked up the academic schedule of UCLA, but there it was, simply too easy to access and find), so she doesn't expect to hear from him for at least another week.

He confirms within a minute.

When her heart skips a beat, it gives her enough of a boost to freely stalk his profile page for information. He would likely be doing the same thing right about now _anyway_ , so there really is no point in holding back.

He's single; it's the first thing she looks for, the word seeming to lift her insides up. He has almost too many friends, and his _About Me_ simply reads _You've probably heard of me. Bokononism_ is listed under his Religious Views, and politically, he's written _Leftist Rage_.

It sure sounds like Jesse.

What is she doing, friending her ex-boyfriend across the country? What is he thinking, friending her back?

  
&

  
Maybe he accepted too quickly, but he doesn't care.

The first thing he looks for is her relationship status. When he sees that she's single, he lets out a breath he hadn't been aware he'd been holding. He feels like a creeper, but that doesn't matter, either.

She's online.

  
  


His heart seems to come to a complete stop. He can't believe they're talking again.

 _I've been thinking about you,_ he types slowly. He debates about pressing _Enter_ for a good minute before just going ahead and doing it anyway, his heart in his throat. He swallows, but it doesn't do anything to aid the feeling.

 _Me, too,_ she answers.

His lets his eyes close as he leans back in his seat. The feeling that overcomes him is indescribable. It's strange, feeling this alive, this real. He can feel every sensation in his fingers, in his feet. Just sitting here, existing. His fan is running above him, causing a chill to run down his spine every five minutes or so. His name doesn't even sound real to him sometimes when he hears it. Sometimes he wonders if he's doing the right thing, going through the motions everyday. He's good at what he does, but fulfillment?

 _This is it_ , he thinks. _This is fulfillment._

His body has never felt quite so at peace or quite so awake, and certainly not at the same time.

When he blinks, he sees Rachel's replied again. _Listen, I should probably try to get some sleep, but is your number still the same?_

Looking to the bottom right of his screen, he notes the time. It's 3am, which means it's 6am her time. Damn.

 _Yes, of course_ , he answers, running a hand through his hair, stupid smile on his face. He can't believe she's kept his number in her phone this whole time. Not that he hasn't, but.

Everything feels incredible.

  
&

  
She has a stupid smile on her face when she falls into bed, her phone in her hand. It's hard not to get excited about this. They're both single, but he's in California, and she's in New York, and at this rate, she's not going to be sleeping at all tonight.

 _Hey again, you,_ she texts him.

 _I was hoping you'd say that,_ he replies almost instantly.

At least he wouldn't be getting any sleep, either.

  
&

  
Texting with Rachel goes far more smoothly than he had ever expected. She's not mad as far as he can tell-- and it's been a while.

It's a relief, knowing he's not on a perpetual chopping block-- Rachel has matured noticeably over the years, even if she has a regrettable two years of school left.

Jesse knows full well that three months is a long time to go without putting a label on anything, but their _thing_ \-- whatever it is-- is long-distance and that alone removes any semblance of permanence from the picture. Rachel was a long-lost old flame just a couple of days ago, and even if she isn't long-lost anymore, she is still, unfortunately, stuck in New York. As much as it isn't exactly ideal, he has to accept that.

Not that Jesse'd ever admit to his being "stuck" in Los Angeles. He loves it here, he loves the opportunities presented to him, and the people who look at him differently when they find out he's gone to UCLA on a theatre scholarship for performance art. There's also the fact that he _isn't_ actually a waiter. Every little bit helps.

He loves the prestige, the feeling this city gives him-- no girl is worth sacrificing that.

He's got a Caribbean Breeze in one hand and his arms slung around a girl on each side of him when Rachel texts.

No girl is worth that.

  
&

  
He's busy, she knows that.

Even if he's graduated, she knows he'll be looking for work and busting his ass to achieve bigger and better things.

It still stings a little when he doesn't always answer right away like she's used to.

  
&

  
"So what do you do?" one of the blondes on his arm asks him, and he flashes his trademark grin.

"I'm an actor, actually."

"Oh? What would I have seen you in?"

His toes dig into the sand almost as if on cue, and he lets the arm drop in favor of another long sip at his drink. "I don't think you're that cultured, no offense. I've been in several off-Broadway productions met with fantastic acclaim and reviews. I largely do musicals due to my superior vocal talent, obviously."

"Aren't you a little too good-looking for that?"

It's not meant as an insult, and Jesse knows that in the tiny recesses of her mind, it's a compliment. But it isn't. He takes another drink. Overhead, the fireworks start going off, people running into the warm water to get a good spot. His shorts vibrate again, and he can't help think of anything other than the fact that Rachel would understand.

Letting his drink go to some random passerby, he turns back to the blonde.

He almost wants to comment that she'll do, but he bites his tongue. She wouldn't get it anyway. No one in this stupid city does.

"Just shut up and look pretty," he says, pushing her up against the wall of the small surfboard rental booth, kissing her almost forcefully. She complies readily as if simply glad she understands what's going on once more. Either she heard him and doesn't care, or she didn't, and it doesn't matter. He hates girls like her, but when she finally stumbles into the booth with him, undoing his shorts to tug them down as she gets down on her knees like it's her damn day job, he realizes he hates Rachel so much more. Worlds of blonde and flawless features sucking him off, and all he can think of is chestnut brown hair and that damn Jewish nose.

He comes in her mouth anyway-- whatever her name is, Kaylee or Caileigh, something-- and feels like an ass.

 _Barbra Special on TV!! Come watch with me? It's on E!_ Rachel's text reads, followed by, _Miss you. Hope you're not overworking yourself. <3_.

  
&

  
It's not that Jesse's the only one going to parties. In a spectacular feat that would have made Santana's jaw drop back when they were in high school, Rachel has acquired friends. It's a damn miracle, but at Tisch, theatre leads will get you anything. The amount of flattery, admiration, and being asked for autographs has come naturally to Rachel. After all, she's been _made_ for that aspect of it all. Being hit on all the time, however, is a different story.

It isn't that she's still the blushing virgin she'd been with Jesse. Finn had been the lucky guy, not that it mattered anymore. There'd been two more to follow, Rachel averaging about one a year, which she doesn't think terrible. Nothing permanent, obviously, but it's certainly good to let oneself roam freely once in a while. It isn't like she's contracting AIDS or anything. Protection is important, particularly in questionable fields like show choir and musical production. You never know what you might come across. Both boys had been her male leads. It isn't a big surprise, really-- Rachel has a type, after all. Performers, those who understand her struggle, have always drawn her in.

It simply makes sense.

The only problem has always been the persistent lack of spark, that instant connection. She can admit that she had that with Finn at least a little, didn't have it with Noah, and definitely had it with Jesse. To think that they are talking again only makes sense in her mind, one that is riddled by thoughts of fairytales and epic romances.

Jesse fits into that description.

 _Hello_ swept her off her feet, and he seemed to be doing very much the same for her again. She had created a shared calendar for them in order to insure their keeping afloat of what nights they would be meeting up for their texting dates (not officially _dates_ , but still, a girl can always speculate and stress over these things for hours only to finally settle on pretending) to reduce confusion.

There's a reason for that, too.

The first time that they start talking and keeping up their nightly texting again, it lasts about a week. Rachel realizes, in retrospect, that his wanting to avoid his family might have been at fault there, but as soon as a week passes, nothing. She'd sent him four texts only to not hear back until three days later, him confessing that he'd been going through a grueling rehearsal schedule, meeting with the cast for drinks after, and promptly passing out upon his coming home.

It isn't just that she was worried sick for three days straight (though that had certainly was part of it, too). It was also that she'd been so damn certain that he was done with her. That it was over for them, that she'd insulted him in some way, and that he was gone out of her life again.

Listening to _I'm Not That Girl_ on repeat certainly hadn't helped, but there was very little else one could expect from Rachel. Always the flair for the dramatic.

When he finally returns, texting her a nonchalant _Hey, what's up, babe? I'm exhausted,_ she insists upon calendars and schedules. As reluctant as he is to comply with her request, she puts her foot down. He still doesn't abide by her rules all the time, and she isn't about to make him, but it's better than before.

The next several months seemed to pass in relative peace. They would watch movies together, texting their commentary to each other, share song recommendations, talk about experiences they'd had in their respective cities, and the productions they were getting involved in. Jesse had been cast in _Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat_ , and Rachel was looking at auditions for _West Side Story_. Jesse occasionally breaks the rules and doesn't show up for "date night," and Rachel occasionally turns a blind eye. It's working for them, whatever it is.

Not that she would ever ask him. She knows, considering his reluctance towards the calendars and his occasional not-going-to-show attitude, that he isn't ready for anything, not even for whatever _this_ is. Putting a label on it now is decidedly out of place. On Facebook, she's noted, he's still listed as firmly _Single_ , and it's driven her to leave hers as it was, as well. Perhaps that's the label she's stuck with, at least until _he_ brings up otherwise, or _he_ changes it.

She hates obsessing about things like, knowing full well that Jesse certainly isn't.

  
&

  
"So," she smirks just slightly, knowing precisely how much intrigue to offer him without giving it away as she runs her finger over the rim of her glass, "are you seeing anyone?"

His eyes dart to his phone almost as if on instinct, and he promptly pushes it into his pocket in one smooth motion as if it was always intentional. "No, actually."

"So, would you like to..."

"I'm not dating right now," he defuses quickly, flashing her a cold look of superiority, even if only briefly, one corner of his lip twisting up. "But that aside, _absolutely_."

  
&

  
It isn't a date night. Rachel is out clubbing just as much as Jesse is. With her in New York and him in Los Angeles, it would have been nothing short of cruel to cut off their Friday and Saturday nights from the nightlife they could otherwise be enjoying. So out with friends it is.

One of her closer friends picked the place, somewhere Rachel isn't terribly familiar with. After ordering her signature seabreeze, she suddenly feels her ass grabbed, turning around fast enough to give someone else whiplash.

" _Excu--_ "

"No," he grins, "Excuse _me_. I was hoping to buy you a drink."

"Thank you, I'm seeing someone already. Not interested."

"Could he give you thi--" he's about to reach for her ass again when she grabs his wrist, giving him a stern glare. "Please leave or I'm calling the police."

It's becoming a serious issue. It isn't even just the _getting asked out_. It's the fact that, well, she can't in all honesty say that she is getting those things from Jesse. She isn't.

"Hey guys," she turns to her friends as soon as she's polished off her drink, "I think I'm heading out, I've got a headache."

That excuse, too, is becoming an issue, if only because of her serious overuse of it.

Hailing a cab, she gives the driver her address and settles into her seat, content to stare out the window. It's one of her favorite things about the city that never seems to stop moving. It's so easy to get drunk and let someone else take control, when provided the money. Watching the city pass her by as the meter ticks up is just an added benefit. Really, Rachel is glad to have gotten a place off campus. Being gone from the city over the summer proved lethal for a lot of students who inevitably missed out on the theatre experience the others didn't. Having to leave this headspace, this atmosphere, factors in just as much for Rachel.

Even if it's just a studio, it screams Rachel from top to bottom. The light rosy, coral hue on the walls gives the whole place more warmth than it would otherwise have had, small, cramped, and generally uninviting before she'd made it her own.

As it is, it looks like an over-glorified bedroom. With the kitchenette, small attached bathroom, and oversized four-poster bed, it seems much more like a hotel room than a home, but Rachel has managed to make it look convincing.

Dropping onto her bed, she opens her laptop.

  
&

  
"Fuck," he absently mutters against her lips, pressing her up against the wall as he kisses her, his hands fumbling for his keys. Of course she had to insist on his place because of a stupid problem on her end of things. He'd heard _exterminator_ and _infestation_ , and that had been that. Now they're here, and he's not about to complain about his privacy, something he's always been picky about, not when her top is already unbuttoned and his pants are already undone.

Stumbling into his apartment is followed by his quickly locking the door behind him before he leads her into the bedroom, shutting the door behind him. When he pushes her onto the bed, he can see nothing but the beautiful red color of her hair splayed up against his black sheets.

Climbing on top of her, he's not thinking about Rachel, and he kisses her harder, laughing into her mouth as if he's won some kind of personal victory.

  
&

  
On nights that she and Jesse aren't _dating_ , it's become somewhat of a ritual. She's not obsessed, she simply knows how to enjoy herself when he's not around, even if it means using him-- somewhat indirectly-- to get there.

Turning on one of his performances, this one from the UCLA production of _Les Miserables_ in his freshman year, she closes her eyes and lets herself be transported.

The fantasies are becoming more and more detailed, as if her mind is learning more about him again to flesh the scene out. At the beginning it had been so much more skeletal. Now it's almost realistic, the way she can picture him climbing on top of her, one hand slowly running down her front. She whimpers out loud, her headphones drowning out the sound for her.

  
&

  
When he kisses down her throat, his hand already hiking up her dress to push a lone finger past her underwear, she sighs, arching her back.

That sigh. He recognizes that sigh, knows it better than anyone.

Suddenly, all he can smell is Rachel, lavender and jasmine, and he closes his eyes, quickly withdrawing his hand to make it stop.

It doesn't.

There's a point during every fuck where there's no return to normalcy. It's just Rachel, everywhere. He's learned to stop trying to fight it, because it only makes things ten times worse.

So he fucks her, unrelenting.

He's rougher than either of them expected him to be, but he's never felt so frustrated in his life. She's screaming with every thrust he drives inside of her, and all he can think about is Rachel's voice, Rachel's singing, Rachel's moans--

"Just take it, bitch," he grinds out before coming, hard. He doesn't bother with the ceremonial post-coital connections, doesn't collapse on top of her. There's no cuddling and no curling up together, he just pulls out of her and disappears into the bathroom to remove the condom and wash his hands.

When he comes back into the room, she looks like she feels cheated, but he doesn't care, tossing her clothes her way. He hates people being in his apartment, especially if they're overstaying their welcome, and even more so if they're not even supposed to be there to begin with.

He doesn't even bother to learn her name before she slams the door on her way out.

  
&

  
She doesn't even need to touch herself to feel the electricity move through her body when she listens to him. It's like her whole form comes alive, sending shivers through every limb and making her feel alive. It doesn't matter-- she does it anyway.

When the song comes to an end, she notices the buzzing of her phone. Pushing it aside, she sets the song on repeat, and opens her top nightstand drawer to pull out a small dildo.

She's learned fairly quickly that even if she's sleeping with guys, it doesn't necessarily translate to automatically getting off. Her investment in this toy is still one of the best she's ever put into her love life. It's a personal weakness. It had taken Rachel two partners to learn her affinity for feeling _full_ while masturbating, and chose to put the knowledge to good use.

Her toy doesn't talk back, doesn't argue with her, doesn't expect her home by a certain time, and it's absolutely perfect for pretending that Jesse's the one fucking her, that it's Jesse's fingers moving hotly against her clit as she squirms underneath him.

She screams, sliding the glass dildo inside of her, eyes closed as she imagines Jesse entering her in one fluid motion.

Somewhere in the far, deep recesses of her mind, he's singing _The Word of Your Body_ , and her body strums happily alongside her ministrations, arching up against Jesse's dick, letting Jesse's fingers touch her clit and sending her into what would look to a doctor like convulsions.

Her body screaming for release, Jesse offers it every bit of the way, and her release comes with her; loud, sticky, screaming.

Her neighbors complain regularly, but the management of the building is poor enough that she couldn't give less of a shit.

Her limbs are still trembling when she hits pause on the video of his performance to look at the text message.

_Missed you tonight. Amazing, I know._

She falls asleep with a smile on her face, Jesse still lying on the pillow next to her. Naturally.


	2. Chapter 2

"Hello?"

The last person he expects to call him at 3am is Rachel Berry. Granted, the last person he typically expects to call him at any time is Rachel, but that's because they're used to texting, and she's breaking their social norms.

When he hears her crying, however, things start making more sense. _Of course_ she'd call him for support on whatever was going on in her life. _Of course_ he'd be the fucking person she'd turn to. Even if that meant waking him up.

Sitting up, he rubs at his eyes, climbing out of bed and retreating to the kitchen in the hopes of retrieving some orange juice.

"Jesse--" she sounds hysterical, "Jesse, there was a huge brown recluse, at least 5 inches in diameter in my apartment a second ago, and I ran to get a shoe, and when I came back it was gone, and now I'm on my fire escape and I'm scared and I don't know what to do and I'm not going back in there!"

She wasn't on the verge of crying, she _was_ crying. Jesse might have thought it ridiculous if it wasn't a spectacular way to break into talking on the phone instead of texting. A huge step, all things considered.

"Rachel," he says slowly, taking a deep breath as he returns the juice to the fridge and presses forefinger and thumb together at the bridge of his nose, kicking the door closed with his foot. With the phone clasped between ear and shoulder, he grabs his orange juice and retreats to the couch. He won't be able to get back to sleep, that much is for certain, which mean, in other words, that there had to be _something_ good on Showtime. "I want you to listen to me carefully, okay? I'm going to say this very slowly and I want you to pay attention."

As he hears the sound of a dull rhythm against the phone, he realizes she's nodding. She's stupidly endearing at the worst of times. He wants to hate her, but there's nothing he can do. She has to be the most frustrating person he knows. It's not a long-shot in the least. Somewhere on the TV screen, quite possibly a million miles away from Jesse, _The L Word_ is playing.

"You're going to take a long, deep breath. You're going to realize that you can stay out there forever, or check into some horribly unsanitary hostel that any self-respecting Rachel Berry would never be seen dead in, or you can accept that the exterminator for your building probably won't be due for another three weeks since it's the middle of the month, and go back in there. Again, we have two options. We can freak out about it and have panic attacks and make our lives miserable, go hunting for the recluse, shoe in hand, or we can chill the fuck out and recognize that it probably returned to its crevice and just won't come out."

"They're _poisonous_ ," she whispers to him. She sounds legitimately terrified. It makes his heart hurt. "I wish you were here."

That last bit sounds more somber and far less hysterical. Jesse feels ridiculous. Somewhere far away where Jesse isn't paying attention, Shane and Mandy are hooking up.

After a hard swallow, he closes his eyes. "Yeah."

  


&

  
It isn't that Rachel is clingy.

She spends plenty of time with her castmates, her friends, her directors, her teachers. She has a life outside of Jesse. She goes out to dinner almost every night, because frankly, it's New York, and not only are there vegan restaurants available everywhere, but eating out is just as expensive as eating _in_ , and when she's not at rehearsal, she's out at clubs or dancing with friends.

It's just that she doesn't have a _love_ life outside of Jesse.

It isn't that she hasn't gotten the offers, either-- there have been _plenty_ , one skeevier than the next. Turning them down isn't a problem. The real problem is her friends.

"You know he's interested in you, right?"

"I... no?" To Jesse, the look on her face would have already given her away. As it is, however, he's not here, and it doesn't.

"Oh come on, the way he looks at you? Besides, he's your co-star. Your fellow male lead!"

"That really shouldn't affect my decision on who to date."

"Like it hasn't in the past? Right."

Rachel colors slightly, biting her lips. She always runs out of excuses. "I guess I'm just not that interested in him."

"I find that hard to believe."

"I don't have to be automatically attracted to every male lead that stars beside me."

"Oh, sure. Come on, have you even _looked_ at him?"

They have a point. If it weren't for Jesse, she would be all over that. With his perfectly chiseled bone structure that makes him look as if he'll never age, those incredible cheekbones, that shock of dark hair... he's well-built, slightly taller than Rachel, and they kiss _a lot_ in the play.

It's logic in the making.

"Look, guys, I appreciate your willingness to play eHarmony for me, but I can handle myself."

"You know, Rach, the only time a girl says that is if, a) she's already sleeping with the guy, and... judging by the way he's looking at you like you're a piece of meat he'd like served for himself extra-rare and juicy, that seems unlikely, b) if she hates him for some weird, unexplained reason, also doubtful, or c) there's someone else. So. Who is the lucky guy?"

  


&

  
It isn't that Jesse is picky.

He's fucked almost every girl in the show without so much as batting an eye with the key exception of the brunettes, not being able to stomach seeing Rachel in front of him when he's already smelling her scent, hearing her scream for him, tasting her skin with every girl in front of him.

It's almost as if she's trying to get under his skin without even being around him. It's not fair-- he's doing everything he can not to think about her. Half the time he has half the mind to call off this long-distance _thing_ that they've got going on, and then he realizes that he doesn't even know what to call it.

A friendship? He's the one getting off to her singing and seeing her everywhere. Just because she calls him to tell him about a brown recluse in her apartment doesn't mean she's screaming his name at night.

So he doesn't say anything, not wanting to sound like the fucking idiot he already feels comparable to.

And that aside, things _are_ different since the phone call. Moving from just texting to calling is a huge leap, and he feels the constriction of commitment threatening to choke at his neck like an invisible dog's leash.

It's stupid. Rachel never asked for any of this.

"Hey," a voice permeates from behind him, cutting through the thick haze his thoughts have become, and he turns around slowly, brows raised, ever the skeptic.

"Yes?" he asks slowly, taking a long sip from the Bohemian in his hand, his eyes raking up and down her body.

He's not even subtle about it.

"I couldn't help but notice your..." she's practically _purring_ , her gaze leading his own lower and to his crotch. Yes, he's aware that these pants are tighter than his others, but he didn't expect to be solicited because of them.

Taking another look at the girl, he slowly leans in with a frown.

"Sorry, can't. Nothing against you, really."

He can't believe it himself, turning down a girl just because she has black hair. It's not even brown, but it's too damn close. All he can see is Rachel, Rachel, _Rachel_ , and he's about ready to kill her for constantly cock-blocking him.

Swiftly exiting the bar, he heads, instead, to let her do the opposite.

  


&

  
"And you have no reason to... so much as believe... that you guys are dating?"

When they put it like that, it's a fair point.

"Look, Rachel, I don't want to be blunt with you, but, well, frankly, you don't know how many girls this guy is dating on the side. You're not exclusive. There was no discussion about that, if I understood you correctly."

"And we're sure he's not just using you to get your rocks off?"

"We, um. We never had sex," Rachel rushed to defend, coloring despite herself. He may have not been using her, but she was certainly using him for those purposes. Or more accurately, his voice, his performance, his talent. "It's not like he calls me to have phone sex every night, we just... talk about random stuff on predetermined nights. It's never sexual, or anything."

"I don't know, I'd be skeptical. When are you seeing this guy again? How long has it been?"

She doesn't exactly want to admit to it having been, well, just about four years since she saw Jesse last. That she doesn't actually know if he's changed in his looks-- that she only has youtube videos and facebook pictures to go off of, that she has no idea if he even wants to see her again, let alone when.

"Anyway, my point is... you don't even know this guy anymore. And he," she gestures at her fellow lead, making Rachel's chest tighten, "well, you know he wants you, and you know what he's all about. He's your type, too, given the amount you make out on stage. At least give him a chance."

  


&

  
Jesse's smart enough to know when he's cockblocking _himself_. He feels pathetic, sitting here, headphones and all, stroking his cock like his damn life depends on it, but it's Rachel's fault. All her fault.

Of course he would blame it on her.

Her and her perfect voice. Her perfect body. Her perfect talent.

Groaning, he leans his head back, stroking faster.

This time, Finn won't interrupt him. It's just him and Rachel now, getting off, together.

His hand speeds up, and his hips lift up off his chair with a groan.

"Fuck!" he yells, gripping onto the bottom of the chair as he feels his hand bring him to completion as he comes, hard, all over his hand.

If she's so good to fuck in his mind, he can't imagine what she'd be like in reality.

With another groan, he grabs his towel off of the desk, cleaning up after himself before chucking his headphones elsewhere. When he finally collapses on his bed, he still can't stop thinking about her.

At this point, it's not exactly a surprise anymore, and he acknowledges, for once, that he hates himself more than he hates her for it.

  


&

  
"Listen," he whispers in her ear, sending shivers down her spine, "we have to spend... probably the next few months being intimate on stage, and I feel like I hardly know you, Rachel. Would you be up for... coming back to my place with me for a glass of wine?"

She nods before her brain can stop herself, and she smiles up at him, her friends making shooing motions already, as if to tell her that she was already overstaying her welcome at the bar if she could be back at his place.

  


&

  
It's the first time Rachel isn't picking up on the second ring, and his stomach is tying into knots.

He should have taken the girl up on her offer, he tells himself as he finishes his fourth drink in his apartment, downing it all in one go. He could kick himself. Of course she doesn't pick when he actually _wants_ her around, and he feels the familiar pang of heartache stab at him.

Chucking the phone to the ground in one go, he storms from the room, content to replace Rachel, not for the first time, with a cold shower.

 _Bitch_.

  


&

  
When Rachel is late to notice the buzzing of her phone, she's already at someone else's apartment, and it really isn't the place. When she notes the caller ID-- earning her that classic _I see you'd rather be somewhere else_ look-- seeing Jesse's name, she hastily shoves it back into her pocket, biting down on the inside of her mouth to stifle her desire to call him instead of being here.

Why was she here? Because he had a nice apartment? Because her friends found him good-looking? Because he found _her_ good-looking? This was ridiculous. She shouldn't be here.

"Who's that?"

"It's no one," she shakes her head quickly, offering a smile to make up for her momentary lapse in attention. "Just a friend making sure I'm okay."

"Right," he says, and she can tell almost instantly just how much he doesn't believe her. But even then, she can't even bring herself to care, not really. She'd rather be talking to Jesse, and maybe it was all a mistake.

"What did you want to know?"

"Hm?" he asks, looking surprised at the question, and she has to restrain herself from rolling her eyes.

"You said you wanted to get to know me better. I assume you meant that in a way that wasn't just... sexual."

"Well..."

"You don't have to pretend that that isn't the case," she says quickly as she stands, leaving the drink he offered to her-- a screwdriver-- sitting beneath her, still untouched. "I'm seeing someone. So if you'd like to get to know me, I'd be delighted. But I will pass, very gratefully, if it goes beyond that."

At least he has enough grace and poise to take her rejection for just what it is.

  


&

  
It's well past midnight when Rachel calls him back, and he's nursing his sixth drink. He doesn't normally drink in such quantities, not really, but Rachel brings out the worst in him, and that's his excuse as it is.

"What," he barks into the phone.

"Jesse," she whispers, and his heart melts all over again. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine, Rachel," he says, squeezing his eyes shut, forefinger and thumb pinching at the bridge of his nose. "I've just had that kind of evening."

"I turned someone down because of you tonight."

"Wait-- what?"

"I mean, I know, we haven't talked about this at all, but I just. I got asked out by my co-star and... I couldn't do it. It's like--"

"Listen, Rach," he cuts her off, suddenly angry with her, though he has no idea why exactly, "you can date whoever the fuck you want. Fuck who you want, date who you want, I don't care. It's none of my business, frankly. It doesn't matter how much I think about you or how much I care about you, okay? I'm an asshole."

"Jesse, what--"

He hangs up on her before she can keep talking.

It doesn't even matter if he's turned down every single damn girl that he's slept with and then some for actual _dates_. Dates count. Fucking doesn't.

  


&

  
Some nights she feels as if she'll never understand Jesse. Last night is one of them.

Grateful for the fact that it's Sunday, and not a day for rehearsal for what must be the first time in her life-- the show is going to be awkward since she's turned down her co-star, she knows-- she doesn't get out of her bathrobe, content to watch reruns of _Sex in the City_ and _Project Runway_ and eat ice cream.

Watching Jesse open up is rare. She knows she got a rare glimpse last night, but whether or not that means that he's retreating permanently, she has no idea.

She just knows that there are few things as delicious as peanut butter double-fudge ice cream in times of trials.

When she sees him sign onto gmail, her heart skips a beat.

  


&

  
He's weak, and he hates himself for it.

 _Hey_ , he types, noting the webcam symbol on her end that echoes his own.

 _Hey,_ she replies, and he doesn't even bother asking. He knows she's there, why not just request the damn video.

When he sees her face come onto the screen, beautiful as ever, wrapped in a freaking bathrobe, he wants to record the damn thing and keep it as masturbatory fodder, a small smile coming onto his face.

Maximizing the picture, he turns on his sound, grinning over at her. "Been a while," he mutters, and she grins back. His stomach does a flip-- if only he had more self-control than this.

"It's really great to see you," she tells him, the grin on her face getting the better of him. "Want to see my apartment?" Before he has the chance to answer, she picks up the laptop, giving him a 360° view of the room. It's not large, and really looks very standard for a New York City studio, but it's very _her_ , and he can appreciate that.

"Didn't give me much choice," he laughs, running a hand through his curls. "It's a nice place, I like it."

"Yeah? I try." Watching her grin, he feels almost as if she knows something he doesn't. Then it hits him. "You know," she starts, slowly slipping the bathrobe off her shoulders and letting it drop behind her, leaving her completely bare, her breasts barely hidden by the camera on her laptop, "I was about to take a shower before you messaged."

"Uh-huh," he muttered, noting that the hope of him producing sounds that weren't grunts, groans, and shudders was plummeting steadily.

"I kind of wish you were here to share."

He swallows hard, his erection painful almost within seconds. "Move the camera down, Rach," he whispers, his voice hoarse.

"You know, I don't think so. You hung up on me yesterday, so I think I'm going to return the favor."

He thinks, just for a moment, that he'll get lucky as she begins to tilt the camera down, just before she cuts him off, shutting down the video. "Fuck!" he hears himself swear out loud, slamming the lid to the laptop shut.

If Rachel wanted to play dirty, _fine_.

  


&

  
It's the first time that Rachel really feels like she's got the upper hand in this little... _thing_ of theirs. It doesn't matter if all it confirms is that Jesse wants her, sexually, just as much as she wants him.

She gets to decide the way the game is played now.

  


&

  
He's dialing the number of his co-star before he can stop himself.

"Jesse? It's past midnight."

"Oh, come on, you're tougher than that, you're a damn actress," he grinds out, teeth clenched almost impossibly. God, he hates girls like this. All they can do is stand there and look pretty and repeat lines back. Never mind the club music he can hear blaring in the background. "Look, are you busy?"

"Uh, why?"

"Because you're going to come over here and stop acting like a dumb bitch." Either she doesn't hear him over the music, or she doesn't care. "Look, just get here."

  


&

  
It's not that she's deliberately snooping, _really_.

Jesse has a terrible habit of taking over her brain most of the time, like a high she's reluctant to come down from. She always wants _more_ of it, of him, and because she doesn't want to seem clingy, she has to make it work.

It's worst after webcamming with him, texting him, talking to him over the phone. There's one night that stands out in particular to Rachel more so than any other, if only because of Jesse's dedication to her cause and her silly insistence that he stay up with her.

She's the kind of person to get comfortable in her pajamas and retreat into bed, laptop in tow, and that night, Jesse got a front row position to a sleeping Rachel as she inevitably drifted off despite best efforts. When she woke up the next morning, the feeling of missing him could not have been more pronounced, and Rachel spent the whole day off looking up performances of him.

She feels a bit like a stalker, but ultimately, she doesn't care.

This is one of those nights, her whole mind seemingly consumed by the raw power of her emotions, and she finds herself on facebook.

It's just a stupid comment, but her mind is reeling, and she curses her curiosity for sending her here in the first place. Why does she always have to snoop? Know everything? Read everything?

It's one of _those_ girls, the exact opposite of her, blonde hair, blue eyes, perfect nose, big boobs, and Rachel can feel her stomach committing suicide inside of her chest as she stares at the wall post.

>   
>  _I had a lot of fun last night xo ;)_   
> 

She's fairly convinced that she's never heard of or seen this _Bridgette Anderson_ before in her life, but she already knows she doesn't like her. The stupid _xo_ marker, the even stupider flirty emoticon, the stupid connotation... and Rachel is convinced that unless this girl miraculously is Jesse's cousin, that she has a good reason not to be happy.

They've never agreed to be exclusive, but doesn't she deserve at least a little respect?

  


&

  
When she arrives, he's already clad in nothing but jeans, instantly pushing her up against the door she came in on, and she's too drunk at this point to care or question it. He's never gentle, not with anyone, so it's not a surprise to think that his love-making-- should one ever bother to dress it up as such-- should be any different.

There's more tongue and teeth than lips, as if he's desperate for salvation from love, too unattainable and sweet for his tastes, the need to break free visceral.

"Jesse, what the fuck," she breathes, breaking off as he moves down her neck, going straight for her tits.

"Shut up," he growls, and she knows not to question that. They've slept together just once, as is usually the case for Jesse, and there is no telling what's made him make an exception this time around.

For Jesse, it's necessity. He can't so much as fathom going and picking out some blonde or redhead to woo when all he wants to do is sulk in his apartment. The need for an instant distraction from Rachel horrifies him, and he pushes the thought aside, doing his best to revel in breasts and body completely unlike Rachel's.

It's almost disgusting how readily she complies with his request, and he knows full well that Rachel would never have stood for this.

He doesn't even have to say anything when he leans back against the wall, undoes his belt, and lets his head fall back, softly thrumming until it starts to hurt.

When she starts sucking him off, he has to fight to hold back a gut-wrenching sob that sounds suspiciously like _Rachel_ , Jesse ramming his head back against the wall as his hands grip onto the blonde hair and _tug_.

"Just get out of here," he says softly, "you were never even here, understand?"

  


&

  
It's always when you're not looking for anything that the best offers happen. Hoping that she's got Jesse pinned, at least for the time being, matters more than it should, stupid blondes aside. But getting off to him is not the same as being in an actual relationship, especially when she hears from an ex of hers again. _Finn._

  


&

  
It doesn't take her five minutes to leave, and Jesse feels himself fall back against the door with terrifying defeat.

Rachel is winning.

  


&

  
It's not even that she means to go through with it, her mind just toying with the idea for the sake of her self-esteem. If she really wants to, she can blame her friends for talking her into it and Jesse for slutting it up.

He's in town, and where's the harm in trying? They're not surprising arguments from their end, and Rachel can even acknowledge them as reasonable. So she agrees to a date.

  


&

  
Losing control-- _losing_ in the first place-- has never been his forte, and Jesse can't think of the last time he was this livid. The only time that comes even so much as close to _this_ is when he was asked to audition using _Chicago's_ "Mr. Cellophane," perhaps the least well-fitting song for someone as interesting as Jesse St. James.

This is far worse.

  


&

  
"I missed you." He has that look in his eyes. Finn only ever gets like this when he wants her back, desperately, and suddenly everything is about her, and how perfect she is.

"I missed you, too," she says quietly, not quite meeting his eyes. "I thought you hated New York and never wanted to come back here."

"Yeah, but... you're worth it, Rachel."

Her gaze falls to the pavement. He's taking her to some nice restaurant he really can't afford, she knows, and she feels terrible.

"You really don't have to do this."

"Of course I do. I love you, Rachel."

And there it is. Rachel's world rolls to a stop and she stares up at him. Jesse doesn't tell her that-- hadn't told her that since he cracked an egg on her head, and even then he deliberately used past tense.

"Really?"

"Of course."

  


&

  
"This is incredible, Finn, thank you."

Finn has this habit of only ever pulling out his best stops whenever necessary. The untrained eye would call it desperation, but Rachel knows him better than that. Just as much as concentrating all of his attention on getting her back does not make sense and is typically the reason they always inevitably break up again as his continued interest fizzles out instead of replacing the newness of it all, Finn means well, and she knows that.

"I'd do anything to get _us_ " back, Rachel." He's not even lying when he says it, and it makes her stomach churn. "I can't stop thinking about you. So what if New York apparently doesn't have any grocery stores? That's a small price to pay to be with you."

"Almost no one drives cars here. You'd have trouble finding a job."

"Then I'll wait tables. Rachel--"

"I know," she cuts him off, "anything. But... you have to understand that I'm not the same I was in High School anymore. I'm... more grown up. I have friends. I go to shows and out at night. Guys actually hit on me. I've had sex. When I'm not in a production, I'm auditioning for one or practicing for an audition. I wouldn't be dependent on you for a social life anymore or your star quarterback status to feel good about myself."

He actually seems to consider her words for a moment, which is already more than she expected of him.

"I know all that stuff. I don't care about that. I love you, Rachel. More than anything. That has to count for something."

It does. Expecting that kind of commitment from Jesse is just about unfathomable. Come to New York, drop everything for her, it just wouldn't happen, no matter how much she wants it to.

Finn is right here, ready to leave his small town life for the city just because of her. He even still loves her and doesn't care that she wouldn't have time for him. As hard as she finds that to believe, her friends are right. She needs something to hold on to, and Jesse is anything but a permanent solution.

  


&

  
It's not about the alcohol, really. It's about stumbling across one's own liquor cabinet and being desperate for something to reign oneself in. Pouring himself scotch after scotch seems like a fantastic idea, really.

The first and the second hardly do anything, but on the third, he starts to cry. On the fourth, the tears stop only to be replaced by anger, and on the fifth, he decides he hates Rachel more than he's ever hated anyone for making him so damn weak.

On the eighth, he's drunk-dialed two wrong people before finally thinking of going through caller ID to get to Rachel.

  


&

  
"It's a... nice place."

He has that tone in his voice that tells Rachel that he really doesn't know what to say, and is just saying what he thinks she wants to hear. It reminds her of High School, and she places her keys onto her coat rack with a slight frown.

"Where do you want me to put this?" He has this endearingly confused look on his face, and she takes his jacket, just letting it fall onto the sofa.

"Look, do you want to come see my bedroom?"

It does feel just like High School again. Rachel feels sheepish and uncomfortable, blushing at everything as she tries to get her bearings. It's like her previous sexual experience has been taken away from her, only to be replaced by a naïve uncertainty that makes her feel nothing short of nervous.

"Y-yeah," he says, nodding, and it hits Rachel that Finn really hasn't changed as he follows her into her bedroom.

"It's kind of weird, you know. To think that you've been with other guys. I always thought..." _That he would be the only one for her_. Rachel sighs, sitting on top of the comforter. It's still pink, just less offensively so.

"I couldn't just put my life on hold while I waited for you to come back," she tells him softly.

"No, I know that. Just feels weird."

As possessive as Jesse is, he doesn't criticize her for having a life or her past relationship history. Perhaps that's because he can't settle down himself, but it's refreshing, and she doesn't feel as bogged down. Finn always has these expectations she can't meet, like a smaller nose, and bigger tits, and less sexual partners, and she can't ever seem to live up to the person he wants her to be.

"You don't have to stay," she mutters, getting up again to turn out the room light in favor of the small bedside lamp next to her phone before returning to the bed.

"No," he whispers, barely audible, "I want to."

The fact that he kisses her first is in his favor, and Rachel moves against him as he leans them both back. Apparently Finn has gotten a bit more action than Santana and her over his years in Ohio, too, but there isn't much improvement. He's a good kisser-- he's always been a good kisser-- but she doesn't feel the fireworks like she remembers them.

When she feels his hand moving down to touch on her breast through her shirt, she can't help but feel like she's cheating on Jesse, commitment or not.

"I love you, Rachel." He's muttering against her neck, slowly undoing her shirt. She asked for this when she invited him to her room, but that doesn't mean that this isn't moving too quickly for her tastes.

It's not that she doesn't feel like she knows him anymore, because Finn doesn't seem to have changed much at all over the years they've spent apart, but rather the fact that he hasn't changed, and she has. It's a different dynamic, and the romantic pull isn't there anymore. She's older, wiser, more worldly. She knows what she wants out of life, and Finn is okay with settling. It would never work.

He pulls off her shirt, looking at her with that soft, still slightly nervous expression as he attempts to undo her bra closure with one hand, the other already moving under the cup to feel her.

Her body is responding, and Rachel can't help the guilt that's threatening to overtake her mind as she leans into his touch. He finally gets her bra off, leaving him to kiss and suck at her nipple as one stray hand slips lower and into her pants. Getting her off has never been something he's good at, and this is no different, but Rachel is good at pretending, and right now is one of those times that just calls for it.

Until her phone begins buzzing on her nightstand, and she realizes suddenly that someone is calling her.

Jolted out of her guilt-laden reverie, she grabs it, eyes wide. _Jesse_. Spectacular timing, too.

Holding a finger up to her lips to signal to Finn to keep quiet, she answers.

"Hey," she says, sounding slightly out of breath, careful not to let his name fall from her lips. "Are you okay? You sound--"

"Drunk," he chimes in, practically singing into her ear. "Yes, Rachel, I'm drunk. Wasted. Trashed. And you know what? It _doesn't work_." The last part comes out in a whisper. She's not sure she wants to know.

"Wh-what doesn't work?"

"I still can't stop thinking about you!" he hollers into the phone, which elicits one of those _looks_ from Finn, the one where he finally wants to be let in on the whole story again, and she won't let him. Rachel's stomach is in knots.

"How much have you had?"

"Oh, I don't know, ten? Eleven? I tried calling you but I kept getting these stupid girls and I'm so stupidly crazy about you that I just kept pressing the damn button--"

"J-- please!" She has to fight so hard not to say his name, sucking in a deep breath as she motions for Finn to be patient. It's not working. "Listen to me, I--"

"Rachel, who is it? Do you need me to talk to whoever is on the other end? I can, you know. I thought tonight was about us."

She can hear the dead silence on the other end, and she knows that it's indicative of anything but good.

"Rachel, is that _Finn_?"

His voice is too quiet, too calm. She swallows hard, not letting her gaze move off of his face, her expression warning him to stay quiet.

"Because I don't think you know what I've been dealing with. And let me tell you, it's way, way too much for you to be with _him_ , Rachel. He is never, ever going to be able to love you and fuck you as well as I can."

"You're drunk, I don't think--"

"Shut up!" he hollers again before his voice cracks. "You stupid bitch! That has nothing to do with anything! I'm so in love with you and you don't even--"

She hears the beep on the other end of the phone, and she doesn't know whether it was intentional or not. She's not even sure she wants to know.

What's harder to deal with is not knowing whether he meant it.

For the moment, however, it doesn't matter. The emotion is almost too much to deal with, and Finn needs to leave. Even if she could ignore the guilt before, she can't now. It's not possible.

"You need to leave. I'm really sorry, Finn." Getting up, she throws her shirt on, walking out the door and toward the entrance to her apartment, running a harried hand through her hair.

"It's Jesse, isn't it," he stops in front of her with a frown. "He's not good for you, Rachel. I'm the one you're supposed to be with."

"I'll call you, okay? But I can't. Not tonight. Besides," she offers a small smile, "it's weird sleeping with me, remember?" She feels an immense amount of relief washing over her when she closes the door behind him.

When she finally tries to call him back over and over again, Jesse doesn't answer.


	3. Chapter 3

He wouldn't have called it deliberately avoiding, but that's what he's doing.

He hasn't slept with another girl for a good while now (given his usual track record), instead focusing on the productions he's in and the ones he's trying out for. Most importantly, he's not thinking about Rachel, and even more so, he's not thinking about what he told her that night.

Telling her that he was in love with her, as true as it might have been, is a terrifying prospect on its own. She's not supposed to know, was never supposed to know.

And as guilty as he feels about calling her, of all people, a stupid bitch, he doesn't regret it entirely. With Rachel having half the mind to actually spend the night with Finn Hudson when they've been flirting for months and months now, he cannot believe that he ever trusted her not to hurt him again.

He's not the only heartbreaker in this situation. He's never been. Rachel has always had a hand in these things, and Jesse isn't sure he cares anymore.

He cares enough, however, not to delete her number out of his phone, her name out of his contacts, or the bookmarks he has saved of her performances. Even if he refuses to answer her calls and her messages for the time being, that has to be good enough.

When Rachel's relationship status disappears off of facebook, rendering her no longer listed as single, he loses his mind again.

He feels like an idiot for trusting her. It doesn't matter that he slept with other women, as they weren't nearly as emotionally loaded as getting back together with one's ex was. In Jesse's case, his only real ex is Rachel, and there isn't anything he can do to make this right again.

Their rendition of the Broadway hit is supposed to be _huge_ , and as much as he can practically already feel Rachel's blood boiling when she finds out, he doesn't care for once, just putting his name down, honored to be asked to audition for the part in the first place.

She has to understand. He has to work, too, and it's not only good money, but it's a dream part for him just as much as it would be for her, too. It's an inevitability.

  


&

  
It's that horrible gut feeling that won't leave her alone.

She misses him horribly. As much as Rachel knows that he was drunk, the feeling in the pit of her stomach that never lies is telling her otherwise-- that, no, he meant it. He has to have. It's the only reason that he would call her, well, a stupid bitch. It still feels like a punch to her gut, but she knows Jesse better than anyone, and his temper always gets the better of him, so it makes sense. If he's really in love with her, and really that upset about it-- enough so to pour a good dozen drinks into his system without so much as thinking twice on it-- then he's bound to explode and let his frustrations out on her.

On the other hand, she has no idea how she's supposed to feel. He loves her? He doesn't want to love her?

The knot in her stomach doesn't seem to want to leave when Jesse still hasn't called back or so much as picked up after a good month of her calling him.

It's the missing that gets to her, and she inevitably returns to her internet searches with a heavy heart.

Until she finds it.

At first she thinks it a mistake, that his name links there on accident, but there can only be one Jesse St. James in Los Angeles, and his face is unmistakable.

For him to perform in _Wicked_ as _Fiyero_ of all people opposite an Elphaba who _is not her_? Him calling her a stupid bitch is nothing in comparison to this. _That_ is something she can more than live with.

But _this_. This is unforgivable.

  


&

  
He doesn't check the caller ID before picking up, cursing himself silently as he hears her voice come through.

"Rachel, what--"

"Wicked?! _Really_?! You fucking asshole!"

"Rachel!"

She hangs up before he can say anything else, and he realizes that he loves Rachel because she's a girl unlike any other. She's not delicate, she's not refined, and she has some terrible habits. Her features are far from perfect, and her drive is almost undeniably as great as his. It's impressive, he has to offer her that.

But he knows full well that there isn't a single girl in Los Angeles that would get upset over something like this.

Rachel has always had a flair for the dramatics, and Jesse, more than anyone, understands it.

He quits the production two weeks later. As reluctant as he is to do it, he can't live with himself on that stage, and besides, the Elphaba is all wrong.

For him, it's always been Rachel.

  


&

  
As depressing as he finds it (and frankly, she has to agree), Rachel knows that Jesse loves _Spring Awakening_ just as much as she does, and when she signs up for the audition, she feels her heart hurt.

It's exactly the feeling she was looking for, knowing full well that if it hurts her, Jesse won't be able to take her doing this without him.

  


&

  
It's the same company, and even after he quits, it seems they can't get enough of him. As great as it feels for his ego, the show's in New York.

When he shows up for a private audition, he gets the spot in an instant, suddenly opening up a whole new host of possibilities.

He doesn't want to go to New York, not now, not after what happened, but after having to quit Wicked, he doesn't want to be starving back at his place in LA, either.

So he packs up his bags and heads to New York.

  


&

  
It's not that his place is _dingy_ by any means, having made a bit of a name of himself in LA and having saved up at least a fair bit of income, as well, so even if he's stuck in Hell's Kitchen instead of enjoying a high-rise overlooking Central Park, it's quite nice. Modest, but nice.

The good part is that he has a relatively secure position, job-wise, even if he's terrified of running into Rachel on every corner and in every audition he attends, expecting her to be there.

What he _doesn't_ expect, on the other hand, is Rachel to be sitting in the front row when he arrives for the _Spring Awakening_ rehearsal, lines in hand, ready to be melded into Wendla.

"Jesse," she breathes when she sees him, eyes wide.

"Rachel." It's nothing compared to the look on his face, and he has half the mind to bolt from the theatre following the director's off-handed _oh, you two know each other_ speech. Remembering that he has rent due tomorrow is a far more grounding reality, and he doesn't.

  


&

  
"What the hell are you doing here?!"

She sounds quietly hysterical.

"I could ask the same thing of you," comes his tight-lipped response. In spite of their hushed tones while they're barking at one another, the rest of the cast has clearly caught onto their previous _knowledge_ of each other, and the portly director keeps casting them dirty looks for whispering to each other. Jesse couldn't care less.

"This is _my_ city! _You're_ supposed to be in LA!""

"Guess that didn't work out as planned, huh?"

"Stop being a smartass and answer the question! You're supposed to be on a stage, playing Fiyero opposite some floozy!"

"That doesn't sound like a question to me."

"Jesse--"

"I quit!" he finally shoots back as suddenly and loudly as he can manage while they're supposed to be silent. Rachel doesn't know what to say for once. "Okay? I quit _Wicked_ and I moved here after I got into the show," _without so much as a second thought_ , "because I couldn't live with myself. I didn't think I'd run into you, that was never part of the stupid plan. I would've moved to Chicago if I'd gotten cast there." That part isn't entirely true. "This is just a huge, stupid coincidence. I've been here about a week. I live in a one-bedroom in Hell's Kitchen, and already feel revolted by my surroundings, but at least it's close to Broadway. There, are you happy now?"

"I didn't sleep with Finn," she whispers quietly, and he bites down on his bottom lip, his gaze stuck on his knees.

"I know," he responses just as quietly, and she flushes, not used to how well he can read her anymore.

  


&

  
Of course they have to go through all the blocking with every rehearsal. Around anyone else, with anyone else, this wouldn't be an issue, but it's _Jesse_ , of all people, and there's just no such thing as a stage kiss with him. With every rehearsal, their kisses seem to become more and more heated throughout the show, and the director seems to have nothing but praise to give on their performances, wrought with just the same unresolved sexual frustration evident in Melchior and Wendla.

Their sex scenes don't help matters, either. She keeps having to remind herself to reign herself in, keep herself in control and in character, for when she cries out at the sensation of the mock-penetration, it's all Rachel, not Wendla, her body on fire with the way he touches and worships her.

She knows she's not imagining things when he presses himself against her like he's doing it on purpose to let her feel just how much he wants her, how hard he is. Hearing him sing through every rehearsal they have together doesn’t' help, either, and she can tell just by watching his face-- and the way his pants seem to get tighter with every one of their meetings-- when she's signing, that he feels it, too.

And as much as she wants to accuse him of being a tease when he thrusts against her through her period-appropriate undergarments, she can't.

  


&

  
The thing about Jesse is that her best excuses always fall flat. _I need to work on my career_ is a laughable thing to tell him, because really, he's in the same boat with her, and right now, they're not just in the same career, but the same production, and there's no escape from him. Even if she can't believe that he actually quit _Wicked_ for her, she's not ready. He _deserves_ to be strung along, made to suffer for all the girls he was apparently with. On the other hand, she's not about to tell him that he's stuck on hold for the time being.

"Everyone's going out after the show for drinks, you want to come with?" She's heard it a million times by now, and her excuses are always slightly different. _I'm tired, I forgot to feed my cat morning, I already promised a friend of mine I'd meet up, I don't want to miss the last subway out to Queens, I left the window open, and with this rain..._ Jesse at least has to give her credit for her creativity.

But she doesn't buckle until the night before the show's opening, his hardness pressing almost painfully into her thigh as Melchior fucks Wendla on stage.

"I want you," he breathes softly against the shell of her ear, fighting the urge to moan for fear of arousing suspicion. It's supposed to be a silent scene, after all, even if they're not surrounded by people anymore. But that doesn't make it any easier for her, either

  


&

  
"I'm really glad you finally made it out tonight."

It's so refreshing to hear her laugh again; it reminds him of how much he really missed it-- missed her.

The bar is right around the corner from their rehearsals. It's the first time Jesse has ever bothered to go with the rest of the cast, not having wanted to go without Rachel. He's slowly becoming pathetic, and he knows it, unable to even cave and just date another girl without feeling the massive amounts of guilt he's slowly become steadily accustomed to. It's frustrating. He and Rachel aren't even dating to begin with, and still he can't bring himself to fuck it up again.

Tonight, however he's got an arm slung over her shoulders and an apartment barely eight blocks away.

He knows she wants it, too. It barely matters that the events of the last couple of months haven't been addressed, let alone the feelings between them.

She's five drinks in when she leans in close to whisper in his ear. "I've masturbated to your voice before, you know."

That finally does him in. "Want to get out of here?"

She hesitates for a moment, the grin disappearing from her face, expression recumbent.

"It's too late to catch the subway," he says softly, trying to get the response he wants from her out, watching her face carefully, slowly.

"I'll take a cab," she finally says, shaking her head.

"And pay a fortune to get it to Queens?" But he sighs, expression falling as his shoulders relax. "Listen, we can take my bike. I'll give you a ride back if you come back to my place with me. I promise I won't touch you."

He wishes he didn't have to make that promise, but she nods. It's a small victory, but it's a victory.

  


&

  
"Take it," he says softly, slipping his jacket over her shoulders. He's shivering, and he can't see how she wouldn't with that dress on, long sleeves or not. It's only eight blocks, but in the crisp autumn air well past midnight, it makes all the difference.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing what?"

"Bringing me home, making sure I'm not cold when you know nothing is going to happen between us tonight."

The cold air coming in through his nose stings slightly, and he breathes into his hand, the chill getting the better of him. But the words won't come out. He can repeat it over and over in his head that he loves her, but it doesn't happen, seemingly lodged in his throat.

"I just am." He doesn't want to talk about this and certainly doesn't need to. Not now.

The rest of their walk passes in silence until they come to a stop in front of his bike, Jesse telling her to wait while he goes and gets his gear.

When he returns, his motorcycle jacket and two helmets in hand, Rachel can't help but smile, however skeptically.

"I assume that you do realizes that wearing that will ruin my hair." She looks so nonplussed over her statement. It's cute, Jesse thinks, and shoves the thought away just as he pushes the helmet into her arms.

"Put it on. It's late enough that no one will care about your hair but you. Besides, I'd rather sacrifice your hair than your head." Pulling on his jacket and helmet, he gets on, turning the key in the ignition and standing it upright. "Well? Get on."

Somewhat reluctantly putting on the helmet-- it's heavy-- Rachel climbs on behind him, momentarily hesitant as to her role as a passenger. Does she hold on by his shoulders? Arms?

There isn't much room for discussion when Jesse grabs hold of her hands and pulls them around him, sending a thrill through her. She's this close to him on stage plenty-- closer, even, at times-- but this is different. This isn't a performance. Instead, this is torture by choice, Jesse's scent overwhelming her senses. He's always smelled like raw hide and something distinctly smoky to her, though he doesn't smoke. The only thing missing is her being able to tuck her face into the crook of his neck, and a part of her is distinctly grateful, now, to the helmet preventing her.

"You ready?" he calls over his shoulder, and she calls back her affirmation. "I know you're a bit tipsy," he continues, "but just hold on tightly. I don't want you on the pavement."

The first thing she notices, other than the pleasant vibrations from the seat, is how close she feels to the city on the back of the bike. All the walking down Broadway is incomparable to this. The way the coolly New York air whizzes by her, making her hair stand on end, there's nothing quite like it. And as much as the inner city traffic seems to be slowing him down, she whishes he could go faster, her arms gently squeezing around his midsection, something he seems to take for fear.

"Just trust me," he tells her at the next stop, both of them surrounded by taxi cabs. "I know what I'm doing."

Closing her eyes, she lets the crisp breeze surround her, nothing but Jesse, the city, and this feeling. She isn't pulled from the reverie until a voice pierces distinctly through it.

"Hey, want me to take your girlfriend off your hands? I'm thinking she could do a whole lot better than you!"

Almost instantly, she holds on a bit more closely to Jesse. Even after all this time, she's still not used to it.

"She's not my girlfriend. But I think she's fine where she is, thank you."

It's not even his casual dismissal or his words. It's the fact that Rachel could have sworn she heard an _I wish_ from him somewhere in there.

  


&

  
"It's nice."

He's not lying. For a Queens apartment, even just the outside, it is really quite nice. Then again, Rachel has always had superior taste, and he's not surprised.

"Keep the helmet for now," he adds softly as he notes her fiddling with it. She's still wearing his jacket, too, but he's not about to say anything. "You can just give it back whenever." It's not as if he would take anyone else for a ride, really.

"Aren't you going to walk me up to my door?" Her helmet is off, hair slightly disheveled, and he can't help but think her adorable even as the disappointment of the thought seems to ebb off her in waves.

The door is only a few feet away, but he gets it, putting his bike in neutral and turning it off before pulling off his own helmet and leaving it hanging off of one of the handlebars as he walks up the steps with her.

"Look, Rachel," he starts, but she shakes her head, coming to a stop in front of the door.

"We have a big opening night tomorrow. I don't want to keep you."

He nods, quietly, about to return to the bike without a second word when she kisses him.

It's their first, legitimate, non-stage kiss in a while, and for once, it confirms everything he's hoped for.

When he pushes her up against the door of the apartment building, drawing a long, extended whimper out of her, he groans, pressing further as her lips part to him and she tilts her head just barely, as if not wanting to say too much by kissing him like this.

Letting his tongue draw slowly over her bottom lip before gently biting down and tugging at it, he earns himself another moan from her. At this point, getting hard because of her is second nature. Rubbing up against her through his almost uncomfortably tight pants (entirely because he wants to avoid showing) is torture, and it only gets worse when he has to pull off the damn pants and pretend to fuck her. He's certain she can feel how hard he is every time, and now is no different.

Rachel whimpers again as her hand draws into his hair, tangling her fingers there as if to demand him not to move, something he's more than eager to comply with, his own hands cupping the back of Rachel's neck almost possessively.

When he finally draws away, resting his forehead against hers, they're both breathless.

"Jesse," she starts softly, and he shakes his head, seeing the look in her eyes.

He recognizes that expression. As much as his cock is screaming at him, Rachel is tipsy, and if he comes up with her tonight, he can tell just by looking at her that she'll say it, and he's not ready for that. Not at all.

"See you on stage tomorrow, princess." With one more non-committal wink and a smile, he returns to his bike, pulling on his helmet and riding off.

Jesse St. James has always been an asshole, and that's not about to change. Not even because of Rachel Berry or the way she makes his heart seem to constrict.

  


&

  
It's not that Rachel has ever been able to really experience her kinkier side. The second guy she'd slept with had haphazardly attempted dirty-talking, occasionally slapping her ass. But there was nothing dark and dangerous about it, and it seemed more comedic than anything else.

This is different.

"I don't feel it."

The anger ebbing off of Jesse is palpable. She's always felt him consumed by the characters he plays, but the way he hits her has only ever been an act before now. When Rachel's face constricts with sudden pain, it's entirely genuine. She still doesn't expect it when he hits her again, and even more so, she doesn't expect to feel how wet she really is, how wet he's _made_ her when she rubs her thighs together, whimpering softly, knowing that he knows it's entirely honest.

He doesn't even have to punch her-- and thankfully doesn't-- to warrant a collapse.

He's building up to something. She can feel it. She just doesn't know what it is.

  


&

  
"I can hear your heartbeat, Wendla."

"I-I don't know--"

"Wherever I am, I... I hear it beating."

"And I hear yours."

The soft shudders from him, the way he closes his eyes, the way he touches her hair, even the way he kisses her-- it makes her wish, for once, that she wasn't on a stage performing, that she didn't have to push him away.

"What? Not supposed to what? Love? I don't know, is there such a thing? I hear your heart..." Every time the music starts, and _I Believe_ begins, she gets goose bumps, looking at him. It's like he's talking to _her_ , and she can feel her own resolve weakening with every touch, kiss, and utterance from him. "I feel you breathing, everywhere. The rain, the- the hay-- _please_. Please, Wendla."

She wants, more than anything, to kiss him again, to stop fighting the urge to be with him, even if he believes in love about as much as his character does, alcohol-induced honesty aside.

Instead he tears open her shirt, touching her, Rachel letting her head fall back, biting her lip to restrain herself from crying out, breaking character, and abandoning herself to Jesse entirely. But the way Jesse touches her has always been possessive, with intent to mark and claim. After last night, it's hard to let him do anything but. Even her hand with the aid of her dildo-- by now quite adept at perfecting the motions-- isn't able to measure up, no matter how hard she tries.

''It's me. It's just me."

When she finally spreads her legs to him, letting him kiss her and touch her, his dirty little secret becomes more than evident, pressed against her underwear. They're both guilty, and she knows that when he feels for her center that he knows how wet she is by now.

Pretending to have sex with Jesse instead of actually doing so requires every last bit of self-control she can truly muster up.

  


&

  
It's been an inevitability this whole time, of that Jesse is convinced even despite the steady festering of the idea only now lying with Rachel on the stage in the dark, waiting for the second act to start, he can feel his heart pounding. Neither of them has said anything, but if his finger is indicative, she's unbelievably wet.

In one fluid motion, he reaches under her costume and tears her underwear at the seams. Rachel's eyes are wide-- he's even surprised at himself-- but the way she whimpers his name-- _Jesse_ , not _Melchior_ \-- and tugs at his pants, is confirmation enough. She wants him just as much as he wants her, and waiting until the end of the show would be torture.

So when the reverend begins to speak behind them, the lights shining on their guilty bodies as he is to be fiddling with the closure on his pants, he does so with real intent.

Leaning over her, one arm to support him, he pulls himself out-- being hard has never been a challenge on stage with Rachel-- looking to confirmation in her eyes. She nods imperceptibly, and Jesse realizes how difficult it will be to stay quiet when he's fucking Rachel on stage.

When he slides in, he has to fight to swallow his groan as Rachel arches in either mock-pain or pleasure, he can't tell for sure. She feels unbelievable, hot wet, tight, and he all but breathes her name as he slides out and shoves inside of her again, feeling the ache of not being able to kiss her or touch her freely stinging at his conscience.

"Oh god," she whispers, barely enough for him to hear as he thrusts again. There is a certain relief to be felt in his body as he realizes that, as Melchior, coming quickly is a requirement, not an option. Knowing that Rachel hasn't come isn't helpful to his mounting guilt, but knowing from their talks back in high school that she's on birth control helps as she tugs on his hair, fingers digging into his back as her body arches, pressing up, skin against skin, wishing for him to go harder, deeper. So he does, three more strokes quickly followed by his own orgasm, pulsing inside of her as he hears her whimper beneath him.

He can hardly believe it when he finally pulls out, careful to quickly tuck his shame away before he pulls back for them to perform _The Guilty Ones_. They're both still out of breath, and he knows Rachel is struggling, at least slightly; another indicator to him that he knows her too well. No one else would have ever been able to detect the slight quiver in her voice that screams to him of their recent union.

  


&

  
Rachel barely makes it through the rest of the show. Feeling Jesse's come running down the inside of her thigh is almost too much for her to take, still far too turned on after all that's passed between them to function properly. Despite this, the director pulls her aside after the show to congratulate her, telling her that both she and Jesse have never been so convincing in their performances. Though Rachel has always been her own worst critic regarding her performances, and always revels in any praise she can get, here the kind words are more bittersweet than anything else.

When she goes to look for Jesse, he's nowhere to be found.

  


&

  
The key is getting away. Jesse can't even begin to thank his lucky stars for placing his apartment so damn close to the theatre. He barely even notices he's running when he gets to his bike and pulls on his helmet, heading straight for the interstate. It doesn't even matter where he's going, and it's a miracle he's lasted through the show without cracking. It's a testament to his role as a brilliant performer, really, and it's a pity no one can know.

He feels his phone buzz, once, twice, three times-- it's a phone call, and it takes him about two seconds to figure out who it's from. Reaching into his pocket, he turns it off in one decisive motion, breaking 80mph on his speedometer.

  


&

  
When Jesse reaches Atlantic City, he feels lost, not sure what he even came here for. It doesn't make sense-- at one point in his trip, the prospect of a prostitute seemed appealing and even logical, but now all he feels is disgust with himself. The thought of losing Rachel-- he can't stop thinking of their performance of _Those You've Known_ on stage, can't help it-- is overwhelming, stinging at his eyes.

Finally, he turns the bike around and heads for the beach.

  


&

  
It's one of the key things that New York City is lacking. Even if there are "beaches," they're nothing like what he's used to in California. This isn't even close, but it's good enough.

The tears still threaten, pricking at his eyes like painful reminders of his own failures.

He's a coward, and there's no better way to cover it up. What kind of guy fucks the girl he's in love with on stage? What kind of guy can't bring himself to say _love_ when he's sober, just because he feels it? What kind of guy runs out on his girl like that?

Facing up to his mistakes, even his desires-- it's never been Jesse's strong suit. When he was four, he'd steal his brother's and sister's candy, only to run and brush his teeth promptly after to hide the evidence, being sure to feed at least one piece to the family dog. When he was seven and wanted ballet lessons, the took the time over several days to talk his sister into insisting to her parents that she wished to take them, but needed Jesse there alongside her for moral support. When she quit after one week, Jesse stuck it out.

The people around him were either very malleable enough to begin with, or he made sure they would be by the time he needed them to play their parts as cogs in his machine. When there was no one to manipulate, he pulled out his charm, developing fabulous acting abilities in the process. It was an inevitability, much like Rachel.

This, here, now, is different. There's no one and nothing else he can pin this on. For once in his life, Jesse St. James has to admit to a weakness, and it _hurts_ , toes digging into the sand as he loses the battle with his tears.

  


&

  
Ever since she was little, Rachel has always reacted to stress, hurt, anger by singing about it, crying about it, exercising, cleaning, baking. Sometimes they blend together; sometimes it's not that simple.

As it is, the apartment is spotless, a large slice of vegan carrot cake is sitting in front of her (her fourth), her calves are sore, and she's singing along to her _Wicked_ soundtrack.

It wouldn't be so bad, perhaps, if she wasn't only listening to Idina Menzel's rendition of _I'm not that girl_ , but at least she's not crying.

It's a miracle she hears the buzzer to her apartment with her stereo turned up as loudly as she has it, but she does.

It can't be Jesse. It just can't.

If Rachel, in all her time of knowing him, has learned anything about him, it's that he is a coward. Something big happens, he runs, hides, doesn't admit to it, doesn't talk about it, and certainly doesn't answer his phone. She's had her confirmation since yesterday, when he just turned off his phone.

So if it's not Jesse, it'll be her dads, surprising her with a visit knowing that she had her opening night of the big show last night, or one of her friends magically dropping in at just the right time when she needs them without knowing what happened at all. It's not so outlandish-- it's happened before, and she's simply content with the fact that she doesn't need to be anywhere for the rest of today but on her couch singing along to her collection of _The Best of Sad Broadway Musical Numbers_.

Well, everything but _Spring Awakening_.

If he needs time, then he needs time.

Pressing the button on her intercom, she takes a deep breath. "Who is it?"

"Rachel."

Her heart seems to come to a stand-still when she hears his voice, eyes wide as she presses the button to buzz him in.

Quickly turning off her stereo and returning the cake to the kitchen, she realizes that she has no idea what to do, what to expect. This is unlike Jesse, unless he's here to end things with her permanently because he can't take the pressure, can't believe-- as much as she can't-- that he fucked her on stage.

He's up to her door in record-time, and she swallows hard when she hears the knock, slowly opening the door.

"Jesse, what are you doing here?"

''I just needed to see you."

"I don't understand."

"I shouldn't have done that. Any of it. Not in the first place. And I shouldn't have run out on you, either. You don't deserve that, and I'm... I'm sorry."

"You're what?" The squeaky breathlessness of her voice gives her away, Jesse wordlessly closing the door behind him as he steps inside her apartment, hands holding onto her arms as if she's about to run away from him, as if he expects her to.

"I love you and I want to be with you, Rachel."

"I-I love you, too."

She almost doesn't have enough time to finish when he leans in to kiss her, immediately backing her up against the nearest wall, and she whimpers, hands returning to his hair to keep him precisely where he is.

Jesse's always been an impulsive person. He loves, hates, and doesn't care with an intensity that trumps even her own. It's daunting.

When he picks her up by her ass, letting her legs wrap around his waist, he doesn't stop kissing her. The way her hands are tangled in his hair only reinforces the need for him to stay close, not that the way he's grinding against her is helping in the least.

"Bedroom," he whispers hoarsely against her lips, not daring to break from kissing her. It comes out as more of a demand than a question, and Rachel whimpers.

"That door."

By the time they hit the bed, Rachel's shirt is halfway off already, tossed unceremoniously on the ground while he pulls off his own before kissing her again, his hands already fiddling with her bra closure.

 _This_ is how it's supposed to go.

With her bra off, Jesse can't help but stare. Having her naked on stage is one thing, but this... this is different.

"God, Rachel, I don't even know--" kissing a trail down her neck and her chest, he sucks one nipple into his mouth, biting, nibbling, kissing while his hand moves to touch the other one. Looking at Jesse's face, it seems more like he's worshiping her body than fucking it as he works his way lower, peppering her stomach with soft kisses, occasionally stopping to bite gently at the skin, as if to make sure to leave marks.

"Jesse--"

Bunching up her skirt, he makes short work of her panties, throwing them behind him as he lifts her legs up over his shoulders, Rachel's head finally falling back against the mattress.

"Oh god, Jesse--"

It's pure torture, the way he's licking her, kissing, sucking at her clit, her hands buried in his hair to keep him where he is. If he stops, he has to start over.

"Does that feel good, Rachel?" he breathes against her, and she whimpers.

As he pushes his finger inside of her-- then two-- her whole body quivers, Rachel emitting a sudden gasp. It almost feels _too_ good, like it's everything she would have wished he could have done to her when they were both on stage.

"Tell me what you want me to do."

The sudden rhythm of his fingers has her on the edge already, gripping onto his hair more tightly. "Jesse, I'm so close, please--"

When she comes, he rides her orgasm with her as her body bucks up against him, the motions of his fingers only stilling when she reaches down to stop him, her body still shaking.

Kissing her one last time, he returns to her, Rachel's fingers already making short work of his pants, pushing them down and letting him discard them as she finally gets rid of her skirt.

There's nothing better than being skin-on-skin with Rachel, and he realizes, once again, all the things he's missed out on when he claimed her yesterday, both of them still almost completely dressed. This is worlds away, his hands seemingly overwhelmed with the need to touch her everywhere all at once.

"Jesse, please, I need you--"

He groans at that, biting his lip as he leans down to kiss her again before sitting up, pulling her up with him. "Here," he whispers, pulling her into his lap before positioning himself at her entrance and letting her sink on top of him.

"Oh my god Rachel, you feel amazing," he groans.

The sharp intake of breath from her as she takes him in, her legs wrapping about his waist as he supports her in his lap is confirmation enough to Jesse that she's ready for him to move, slowly letting her move up and down on his length as he holds onto her hips, guiding her, helping her, her arms wrapped about his neck as she holds him close.

He's never been this intimate with anyone before in his life, and the closeness is intoxicating. When she squeezes around him, he shudders, leaning up to kiss her again.

Whereas the necessary silence yesterday had been excruciating, now is completely different, and the way she moans, whimpers, and gasps as she moves in his embrace is perfect. Rachel has always been a vocal person, in and out of bed, and this time is no different, Jesse softly biting into her shoulder as she rides him.

"Rachel, I'm going to--"

"Oh god," she whispers, just nodding against him as she speeds up her motions. Squeezing around him again-- it's entirely intentional on her part, and he knows it-- he comes, hard, inside of her, his hands holding onto her shoulders to keep her from moving up and away from him as he pulses inside of her.

There's nothing as hot as coming inside of her, knowing that she's his and being able to claim as much when he shoves himself hard and deep inside of her, earning himself a deep, guttural moan from her as she holds onto him.

"I love you," she whispers, letting her forehead come to rest on his, and he just nods.

"I love you, too."

  


&

  
"You do realize how silly this sounds, right?"

"Please, Jesse? I know I'm coming home tomorrow, but I miss you, and I have Skype all set up, and I just want to see you face."

He sighs, but he's grinning, knowing full well that she can hear it in his voice. "Fine. But you owe me."

"Oh I do, do I? And _what_ exactly do I owe you, Mr. St. James?"

"When we get home tomorrow after I come get you from JFK, I'm going to pin you to the mattress, tie you up, and I'm going to ravish you. And you're going to have to let it happen while I have my wicked way with you."

"I... think I might like the sound of that."

"I thought you might." He flips open his laptop screen and turns on Skype, smile still on his face, waiting for her screen to pop up.

The second he sees her face, his expression softens almost instantly, and he grins. The pink that surrounds her all around on the bed, the walls, the pillows, the stuffed animals, gives her away. If he didn't know her better, he'd feel like a pedophile, watching her from where she's tucked into bed, lying on her side to talk to him through the screen of her own laptop.

"Have you been having fun with your dads?"

"Yeah, but I do miss you."

"It's nice of you to go down there just to celebrate Hiram's birthday with them, you know."

"Well, he's turning 50, so it's a big enough deal that I should be here, right?"

"I know. I'm still sorry I couldn't make it. If they'd let me audition any other time, I would have been there." After a beat, he grins again. "Have you told them the good news yet?"

"Of course!" Her eyes light up, and it's all he can do to keep from jumping on a plane to get to her right then and there. "Are you kidding? It's big enough that they would have noticed it without me saying anything. You, Jesse St. James, are a shameless show-off."

Shrugging, he laughs. "I can't help it!"

"Have you told your parents yet?"

"Yep," he says slowly, small smile on his face as he nods, "sure did. Called my mom just earlier today, actually. She's... not thrilled, but I don't care. I love you so much. My beautiful, amazing fiancé."

"Remember the last time we did this?" she yawns, grinning.

"Sure do. I promise I won't keep watching you after I fall asleep. I have a creeper limit to uphold, you know."

"No Edward Cullen?" she laughs softly, tucking her hand under her pillow, her eyes beginning to drift closed.

"Promise." Watching her falling asleep is something he hopes he'll get to do for the rest of his life; he doesn't know that he's ever seen anything so beautiful, and he's damn sure that he never will again. "I hope you set the timer on your computer already, Sleeping Beauty."

"Mmhmm. Goodnight, Jesse."

"Goodnight, Rachel. See you tomorrow, princess."


End file.
